Open Book
Posted on January 12, 2012 1 Comment
I want to talk about reading.
Not as a writer.
As a reader.
Because I will never be able to quantify the vast amounts of information I have learned through the simple (amazingly complex) process of reading.
I was able to read before I started 1st grade. I’m not sure what caused this. Perhaps it was a push from my parents, or maybe just the desire of wanting to imitate what they were doing. My parents read constantly. There were always books in our home, and we were encouraged to read.
This is a photo of me on the day I was allowed to get a library card:
I could make up something about how this was before the age of computer games and the Internet, but that would be a lie. I learned how to type with Mario Teaches Typing. I played Reader Rabbit. I was a Math Blaster pro. These weren’t just in my home, they were at school.
My mother is a substitute teacher, and I asked her how her day was.
“Such and so can’t read.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“She sat at her desk and cried all day because she can’t read.”
“What does that-”
“I was teaching 3rd grade.”
My brain audibly ground to a halt as I tried to force this into some kind of perspective that related to me. This is truly cognitive dissonance. I know, on an intellectual level, that people don’t know how to read. I have not met these people. And, for the first time, I really started to think about how much knowledge, pleasure, joy, and heartbreak they don’t have access to.
I’m just trying to work this out in my head, and it ended up on my blog.
The movie is never as good as the book.
There are people out there who will never know Harry Potter, or Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, or Harold and his Purple Crayon the same way I do.
I wish there was some way I could fix that.
Everyone’s an Expert
Posted on January 9, 2012 3 Comments
I hate the word ‘expert’.
It didn’t always used to be this way. Now, everyone’s throwing around this term, and, like most overused words, it has lost it’s meaning.
These days, everyone’s an expert on something. Social media, writing, television. In fact, I do know some people who qualify to call themselves experts, but they are few and far between.
An expert is defined as a person who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field; specialist; authority.
Look at yourself. Do you really qualify as an expert? My dad studies WWII as a hobby. He knows more about the European theater than anyone I have ever met. He can identify tanks by their tread marks (okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration). The point is: if you asked him, he would deny any expertise. Here’s where we come to the weird thing about those who attain knowledge.
They (we?) realize that the more you learn, the less you know.
I work in social media. I read Mashable, Read Write Web, Web Pro News everyday. While I have learned a lot from these people, this knowledge does not make me an expert. Being the one writing for them might.
With something like social media, the field is constantly changing. Unless you are on top of it everyday, developing strategy and implementing it, you can’t rightfully call yourself an expert.
It’s hard to be an expert. This isn’t something that should be taken so lightly. The true experts of the world need to take back that word.
Better yet, invent a word that means the same thing that hasn’t been ruined.
Everyone’s a norpluck.
Banging on a Lunch Tray
Posted on January 5, 2012 Leave a Comment
As I near the end of Daniel Levitin’s This Is Your Brain On Music, I recall certain memories with great emotional implications. Without getting too deep into the book content, our ears connect to the parts of the brain that determine movement, which, in turn, is connected to emotion.
It’s complicated and interesting. Someone should write a book about it…oh, wait.
Music is the great equalizer.
Back when I was just a wee lass on a college campus, I had yet to connect with anyone. I had purposely chosen a college that was over 1,000 miles from home. I knew no one. My schedule was 19 hours (the norm was 16), I was apathetic toward my roommate, and my stomach was tied into a knot of apprehensive fear.
The first day of classes, I made my way to Phelps Hall to experience the culinary perfection that is college dining. I clutched my tray, white knuckled, and slunk into a seat in the corner with the prayer, “Please don’t let anyone notice me. Please let someone come talk to me.”
Lesson number 1: Not many people show up to lunch within the first half-hour of open hours.
That was fine. I’m not really that sociable anyway. I had a book with me.
Then, something amazing happened.
As most common eating areas are wont to do, music was piped in through the speakers. In most cases, these speakers are tuned to either something everyone will enjoy (like a top 40 station) or something everyone will hate (like the college radio station). By lucky happenstance, it was set to top 40 and I was sitting under a speaker.
Cue Tainted Love by Soft Cell.
Lesson number 2: Everyone knows Tainted Love by Soft Cell.
I started a head bob, nothing too overt.
Then, something magical happened.
Thump, thump.
Someone slammed their fist down on the table in time to the music. You know the part. You did it in your head right then.
As the song continued, so did the pounding. By the end, everyone in the dining hall was banging a tray, stomping their feet, and singing along.
I was nearly in tears, thinking: ‘My people…I have found them.’
There was a piano in the dining hall, and, over the course of my college career, there were several sing-alongs. (My school had a ridiculously successful music program and about half of the student population had either a music-related minor or major)
My last visit to Phelps Hall for the Up-All-Night Breakfast, senior year, days before graduation, I entered with my group of friends that I had cultivated over the years. We wore joutfits (for those of you who don’t know, a joutfit is an outfit of all one color). We took the stage and sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Needless to say, we had a supportive audience. It was magical. It was amazing.
It was something I will never forget.
And, maybe there was a freshman sitting alone at a table who thought: “My people…I have found them.”
The Mysterious Retail Injury
Posted on January 3, 2012 1 Comment
I seem to be attracted to mildly hazardous jobs. Nothing incredible, like putting out oil fires, just the minor injuries.
I worked at a movie theater for a year, running the concession stand. I got an awesome visor, a nametag, and free movie-themed t-shirts. So what, The Thunderbirds was a flop. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
Anyway, as a concessionist, the duty of popping the popcorn fell on my young, but responsible shoulders. You see, it was a point of pride that our theater had the best popcorn formula out of the three local theaters. Some even used *gasp* pre-packaged popcorn. We popped ours fresh every day. We threw it out every night. When management wanted to save money on popping oil by altering the recipe, the staff rebelled. Sort of. We just ignored the mandate.
The thing about popcorn is that it’s a piece of fluff covered in hot oil. Back then, we didn’t have a door on our popper. If you were anywhere near it when it started popping, bob and weave, my friend. And, God help you if you thought you could beat it. And, God help you if you knew you couldn’t beat it, but the customer was late for their movie. You stick your arm in the burn machine, dammit.
A popcorn kernel burn isn’t very serious. It’s a quick flash of pain, less than a bee sting, than it’s back to scooping the popcorn into the bag. Though, unlike a bee sting, it leaves nice blotch of a scar behind, so small you don’t really notice it until you get a tan.
But, those injuries weren’t exactly mysterious. You took a risk, you challenged the machine, and you lost. Humanity has made that mistake before and will make it again
My current job is as a barista.
Yes, a job that requires me to jet superheated water through a metal tube into a metal pitcher that I have to hold up in order to make sure your latte gets no foam. Additionally, we bake our own cookies, grill sandwiches, and oven-roast pizza.
These things are hot.
And, even if you aren’t clumsy, there will inevitably be a time when you bump into a steam wand, or your fingers slip onto the top of the panini grill. All four of them. I had no feeling for a week.
But, where the hell did that massive bruise on my hip come from?
I’ve come home from my job with my hands chewed up with papercuts and I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY CAME FROM!
Something lurks in every retail establishment. First, it dries out your skin. Then, it runs you into things when you’re not paying attention. Then, it cuts you, cuts so tiny, you don’t notice, until the aforementioned dry skin turns it into something much worse.
It’s a mystery, I tell you. And, I’m not the only one. When I asked my coworkers if they had ever experienced the “Mysterious Retail Injury”, they looked confused for a moment. But, after the awkward silence, they shouted “Yes! Oh, my God, where do those bruises come from?”
It’s strange to think that retail offers an environment that allows us to function at that level. I didn’t know that making coffee was so consuming that my mind blocked out pain. Who knew popping popcorn was such a hazard.
So far, it’s been nothing life-threatening. But, you never know what Mysterious Injury lurks around the corner.
Culture of Collection – A tale of Christmas Present(s)
Posted on December 19, 2011 Leave a Comment
Don’t even try to pretend you don’t watch Hoarders. Your lip peels back in disgust at the sight of a house in such a state of 
disarray, it’s nearly physically painful. You placate yourself every minute or so, telling yourself, ‘I will never be like that’, but we might all be heading that way.
I live in a Culture of Collection. I have stacks of books collected around my house. As my shelves empty of books while my collection goes digital, I find other things to take their place. DVD’s, action figures, toys, *cough* an Iron Man helmet *cough*. My justification is and has always been: They look cool.
I read a post on the 90s today and suddenly, my hoarding fears rushed to the surface. I still have a crap load of Beanie Babies. Why? Dear, God, why? I didn’t even play with them when I had them. Here’s how it worked.
- Buy Beanie Baby
- Read poem
- Click on tag preserver
- Store
My cat got more use out of my Beanie Babies than I did. She killed them every night and left their rotting carcasses on the stairs for us to discover in the morning.
Keep in mind, this was so long ago, that cat is no longer alive.
Why do I still have them?
I’m on the path to hoarding. I can’t get rid of them. Every time I think of doing something with them, I remember how much I wanted them, how hard I tried to find them, and what a point of pride it was when I finally got Digger the Crab.
There was this notion that one day they would be worth something more (did that day ever come?), but now, they’re just a cute mass of nostalgia piled in a closet.
I’m not a sentimental person and, at some point, I will either decide to get rid of them or they will be in the way of something new. While I might have a tendency to collect things, I also have an OCD impulse that requires a certain balance of minimalism. Even I can have too many nerdy t-shirts (still haven’t reached the threshold on that one).
On some level, I have sympathy for hoarders. Objects are like pensieves; they contain memories, they seem to hold on to meaning. In reality, we’re the ones who have to remember the culture that we loved. We’re the ones who have to hold on to the memories. No object can arouse a full-fledged memory like a person can.
In the mean time, does anybody know what to do with a crap-ton of Beanie Babies?
A Journey Restarted
Posted on December 12, 2011 Leave a Comment
I have returned to The Fantastic World of Barnes & Noble (or the Nobley, for you who are savvy to the lingo). I’ve worked at B&N for upwards of three years, alternating between seasonal employ and full time. The last stint was a solid two year, full-time block that ended January 2nd of this year.
Let me tell you, I was ready to leave. I had a new job at a startup that looked promising, I was flexing my creative muscle to the point where my words were appearing on television (yeah, promos!). It was thrilling. I refused to enter my local bookstore for several months, holding on to my experience as only the righteously indignant can. I had my Nook. I had the library. I didn’t need to visit a store. Then, a friend of mine had a booksigning at a different but reachable B&N.
Since I’m so altruistic (insert chortle), I swallowed my foolish pride, pulled up my big girl panties, and stopped acting like a total wad.
It’s funny how often I need to do that.
Regardless of the burgeoning Texas heat, the door handle was still chill to the touch, promising an over-cooled environment on the inside. My moment of hesitation was short-lived, as a short, middle-aged man on the other side had no interest in waiting for me to rip the door open. I took a deep breath and entered. The dusky smell of thousands of pages washed over me, caught on the breeze of the air conditioning.
As I entered the B&N, a dribble of drool rolled down my chin as I stared at the shelves and shelves of books. That same old feeling started at the base of my spine and worked its way up into my brain. No matter how fast I read, no matter how much I tried, I would never, ever be able to read all these books. It was like the first time I ever entered a bookstore, but, somehow, so much more.
You see, back in the old days, I was trained in every department. Nook, music, even receiving in the back room. It was like I had returned to my home country. I knew this place, I fit in here, I could wax idiotic with the staff and they recognized me as a familiar traveler, if not a native of their local village. But, something was (and still is) missing. If this was the hero’s quest, what elixir had I returned with? Had a gained some knowledge in the last few months? Did I bring hope to the ones on the inside? I had missed an essential step in personal character growth and made a misstep along my journey.
In some ways, it didn’t matter. For me, the magic had been restored in the bookstore. I could return to my old place of employment without shame.
As it is wont to do, my financial situation became increasingly unstable. While I hadn’t locked my future into a startup, I had hoped it would provide a stable source of income for a year until I had saved up enough to move on.
Ho ho, not so. The time came when I realized I had to get a second job in order to stockpile any money. I cooked up a big humble pie and reapplied to my old job. They were more than happy to welcome me back into the fold.
Sometimes I think my life is a sitcom. It’s funny, it’s tragic, and nothing ever changes.
But, what if I want the hero’s journey? When does this girl get to leave the farm to pursue her destiny? Why am I so upset that real life doesn’t work out the way stories do?
It’s not too late to begin my epic quest, and it’s not like I don’t have options. But, it feels like I had almost hit the main road with my questing companions, only to realize I had to turn back because I forgot to pack my magic sword.
Exclusive updates and content for Patreon subscribers